Shortly after three o’clock we started in a coupe with two stout horses driven by a man above suspicion of having “taken anything,” at least at the start.  It is a curious fact that eight or ten inches of damp snow can so nearly paralyze the transportation facilities of a city like New York, but such is the case.  The elevated rails become slippery, the wheels will not grip, and the entire wheel traffic of the streets betakes itself to the tracks of the surface lines, where trolley, truck, and private carriage all move along solemnly in a strange procession, like a funeral I once saw outside of Paris, where the hearse was followed by two finely draped carriages, then by the business wagon of the deceased, filled with employees, the draperies on this arranged so as not to disturb the sign,—­he kept a patisserie,—­while a donkey cart, belonging to the market garden that supplied the deceased with vegetables, brought up the rear.

In the middle and lower parts of New York the streets and their life dominate the houses; on the east side of the park the houses dominate the streets, and the flunkies, whose duty it is either to let you in or preferably to keep you out of these houses, control the entire situation.  I may in the course of time come to respect or even like some of these mariners of the Whirlpool, but as a class their servants are wholly and unendurably objectionable, and the sum of all that is most aggravating.

The house faced the park.  A carpet was spread down the steps, but we could not conjecture if it was an ordinary custom in bad weather, or if some function was afoot.  Evidently the latter, as I had barely touched the bell when the door flew open.  Two liveried attendants were within, one turned the door knob and the other presented his tray for the cards, while in the distance a third, wearing the dress of a butler or majordomo, stood by closed portieres.

We had asked for Mrs. and Miss Latham, and evidently the combination caused confusion.  No. 1 remained by the front door, No. 2, after a moment’s hesitation, motioned us to seats near the fireplace in the great reception hall, a room by itself, wainscoted with carved oak, that also formed the banisters and the railing of a sort of balcony above, while the walls were hung with rich-hued tapestries, whose colours were revealed by quaint shield-shaped electroliers of gilded glass.  Man No. 3 disappeared within the portieres bearing our cards.  In a moment he reappeared, drew them apart, and stood aside as his mistress swept out, the same cold blond woman I had seen in the market, but now most exquisitely clad in a pale gray gown of crepe embroidered with silver fern fronds and held at the neck by a deep collar of splendid pearls, pearl rings alone upon her hands, in her hair a spray of silver mistletoe with pearls for berries.  She made an exquisite picture as she advanced swiftly to meet us, a half smile on her lips and one pink-tipped hand extended.  I love to look at beautiful women, yet the sight of her gave me a sort of Undine shiver.